After washing off, he'd left the room without a word. India took the chance to rinse her hands and get out the laughter she'd held in. It had not been her intention to make him look so ridiculous, but it felt so good to be filled with something other than dread. She was going to keep that humor close to her for as long as possible.

"Proverbial liferaft," she said to herself and laughed again. Laughed until she was doubled over, clutching the sink with tears in her eyes. Eventually, she straightened out and looked in the mirror, ignoring the bruise. Her eyes went small and serious. She cleared her throat and in the best Joker voice she could muster, "...circus wagon."

Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the sink for support. Once she gained composure, something like guilt or shame began to fester.

"Stop that. Now. You can...laugh at him if you want," she spoke to the girl in the mirror; the hurt, confused woman shrunken beneath her captor's clothes.

Not very convincing.


It didn't take long for him to return. Sitting in her usual spot on the sunken bed, India watched him barge through the door with stuff tucked underneath his arms and a plastic bag hanging precariously from one elbow. He slammed the door shut with his foot and dropped his haul on the floor. A full-length mirror, sizeable canvas and paints and brushes.

"No more jokes now, India. You want to uh, be an artist, don't you?" Carefully, she edged herself back to the opposite end of the mattress.

"I don't think-"

"You're right! You don't think! You listen." He licked his lips, picked up the mirror and carried it over to the window without looking away from her. "I think right…here will work just fine." He leaned it against the pane and nearly danced over to where India sat, who looked on in fascinated bewilderment. The Joker held out his hand. "Come here."

She carefully took it. He pulled her up and led her over to the mirror, and they looked at each other and themselves for a moment. He stood behind her, close enough for his warm breath to move past her ear.

Then closer, his chest against her.

"I want you to paint yourself."

"What?"

"I want you...to paint yourself on that canvas. For Bruce."

His thumb moved gently across her own.

"That's crazy," she whispered.

"Think of it as a gift." She swallowed hard and looked away from him. "Without your clothes. I'll leave the room if you'd like."

"No."

Laughing, he pulled back spun her around to face him.

"India, I'll hurt you if you don't. And if that isn't enough for you, I'll hurt other people." She blinked.

"You're still in a towel."

"Lucky for me, you won't need that shirt much longer." He sauntered into the bathroom and returned with his pants and shoes. "Take it off. I'll turn around."

"Take off your clothes."

"No! Just...please! Don't make me do this!"

"Come on, India. What, Kurt? Getting flashbacks?" He huffed.

Then something softer crossed his face for a moment, blurring the harsh lines of his scars and furrowed brow.

"When I'm out that door, I want you stripped and ready to create a fucking masterpiece. Understand?" He stormed away, leaving the room.

In nothing but that damned towel.

India flung herself against the bed and screamed as much as she could into the sheets, crying harder than she thought possible.

Hurt other people. Strangers? His men?

Bruce?

Breathing heavy and quick, she stood up and wiped her heated cheeks with shaking hands.

Fine.


It took her a bit to mix the paints. The palette he'd provided was small and cheap, but the paint was of a quality she'd never had the chance to use.

Satisfied as much as her conscience would allow, India took off the shirt. Her underwear slid down with the jeans and with a steadying breath, she turned towards the mirror.

Never truly having the privacy to look at herself in such a way, her naked body felt very separate and strange. She stared at the dip in her waist that flared at her hips and the dusky color of her nipples. The fleshy bit of skin between each arm and breast. The bone of her ankle and the line of her legs.

A nude portrait of herself. It was absolutely ridiculous.

She laughed nervously and picked up the canvas, balancing it against the side of her stomach, and reached for the palette.


He leaned against the door. The door that led to her.

A day and night. That's what he'd given her. No grocery deliveries or idle visits, despite the constant and incessant want to see her painting.

He'd seen the portfolio she'd put together for art school. Appreciated her classic strokes and muted colors. When the idea had occurred to him, there was no letting it go.

The Joker knocked lazily.

"Are you done?"

She didn't reply and he sure as shit didn't need permission. He unlocked the door and stepped in.

She sat on the bed, back to him, unmoving, staring at the canvas that'd been such a pearly white. He followed that gaze and crept closer.

The perfect image, the very meaning of her. Perfectly transposed. Sad eyes and unruly hair and warm color. Hidden talent and intellect, diluted by an offhand upbringing.

He was so close, his nose almost grazed the wet colors. With a spin of his heel, as nonchalant as he could bear to make it, he looked back at her.

"You have no clue, do you?"

"No, I don't think that I do," she sighed. There were faint half-moons of darkness beneath her eyes and paint caked on one side of her chin. "I'm very tired."

"So am I."

"Does it look odd?"

"The painting?" She nodded.

"No, it doesn't."

The Joker could have sworn that every bit of himself was utterly bare in the light of the look she gave him. As if she knew all there was to know. About him and everything else.

Each cell in his body wanted to rush towards her and experience whatever heaven she had to offer.

But he found himself simply kicking off his shoes and settling down on the bed beside her, a painful chasm of space between them. Not long after, he felt her lay back and curl into herself, as she always did.

"We'll uh, share the bed tonight."

"Okay."


'India'

By Pink Rhythm

1985